Returning to my old 100 theme challenge, my newest topic for today is #17…blood? Now what could I possibly write about blood? I am no horror author, so expect nothing macabre from me today. Blood also makes me think of ancestry, but that, too, is not a topic that interests me. A third thing that comes to mind when one ponders over the substance that is blood is the squeamish feelings felt by those with an aversion to it.
Continuing in that vein (pun intended), I am not among those people who faint at the mere sight of our infamous crimson bodily fluids, nor do I typically feel sick at the sight of it. Sure, there are similar things that have made me terribly queasy in the past. (Have you ever seen that movie about the mountain climber who has to cut off his own arm? Now that did almost make me pass out. Yikes!). But blood? Nah. I got bloody noses aplenty as a duckling, so I’ve seen my fair share of blood.
Now what does make the Duck sick, you might be asking? What is my blood, so to speak? For me, the one thing that truly gives me the same fear as those with blood-o-phobia (I know that’s not a word) is…moldy food. Moldy foo-yes, moldy food! Don’t judge me, but I can’t stand the sight of moldy food! This is not merely a case of, eww, my cheese has mold, that’s gross. This is a case of being physically unable to approach food that I have found to contain mold or being unable to open a container housing food I suspect might be moldy. This often leads to an unpleasant conundrum. I often can’t bear to check for mold, but if I wait, it will surely be worse later. Many were the occasions I was tempted to throw my food out, re-usable plastic container and all, just so I would not have to face the potential of mold.
Now that my bizarre fear has been brought into the light, it is time to reveal my worst encounters with mold. I have two, actually. One, a package of old pepperoni that grew back a fresh coat of fur and…I don’t even think I can say it. A…block of cheese…a poor wretched cheese block that became absolutely infested with black masses. It was surely akin to what I would imagine the Black Death was like, except on an innocent, unsuspecting rectangular hunk of cheddar. Oh, the sights I have been forced to bear! The scars they etch upon my soul! The memories of these atrocities I shall carry with me until my dying breath!
Mold. I hate it. It strikes me with a crippling fear in the same manner some dread the sight of blood. If you have any such phobias, dear readers, let me know in the comments, that we may be afraid together. And be sure to clean out your fridge. Otherwise, you never know what you might find.
I Hope Ducks Can’t Get Moldy